At the cold winter morning
by IlonaSuruna
Summary: FINALLY COMPLETED! A fic about Yassen Gregorovich and his past, the events that made him the man he grew up to be. A little touching, a little raw, a little AU...
1. The Beginning

Disclaimer: not my characters

Please, review!!! If you like and if you don't like and why so.

…………………..

There he was. Lying in the snow, trying to cease the pain in his back, ignoring the fact that his legs and arms already felt like burning because of cold. The other boys stood still, looking forward without any expressions, concentrating to keep their chin high and all marks of possible pity off their faces. He didn't blame them. It wasn't their business to feel sorry about something that ment nothing to them. In their lives – in his life – there was no room for sadness or sympathy.

He touched his face and being very aware of his brand new black eye wiped all possible tears away. The strangers, three men and a woman in very expensive and surely warm fur coats, were talking to the capitain. The group leader, the man who had beaten him just minutes ago, was now coming closer again. The yell broke out from his lips as the man forced him up, pushing his beaten back with his foot. Their eyes met.

He couldn't keep from shivering, not only because of cold but what he saw in those eyes. It was something he didn't even have a name for, some kind of _hunger_ inside him that was glowing in his eyes. He knew, that the day was coming when he would learn exactly what it ment, he had known it for a long time. It scared him, allthough some part of him was still wondering why – it couldn't be worse than all he had gone through this far.

Except that it could. Somehow he knew that there were much worse things that can be done to him than hitting and kicking – and he wasn't even thinking about killing yet.

………………

His private nightmare had started about a year ago. They had gotten a new group leader. First he had just thought that he was picked up because of his childish outlook, but then he began to understand that there was something terribly wrong with this man. He heard rumours from older boys, and saw this one boy, not much older than he, being beaten many times before one day he was ordered to stay in the classroom after others. Only a month after that boy had disappeared – hanged himself, as unofficial rumours said – and now he was going though the same hell and he knew it would surely end just the same. He would be beaten, he would be punished from nothing, and finally he would be too tired to kick or hit or run and then it would be too late to even shout hoping that somebody would hear it and come to see what was happening, no, his mouth would be covered with a rough hand, his hands would be pushed against his chest, he wouldn't be able to breath because he would be choking to the smell of that man and he would close his eyes to avoid those terrible, burning eyes and try not to cry until...

-Cadet! Come to the capitain's office. Immediately.

The distant voice woke him up from his anxious thoughts. Suddenly he was completely aware of the coldness, his hurting back and burning legs, and the tear that had almost frozen to his right cheek. Something was trying to break the mask he had taken to his face – it was a little, bitter grin. Was he finally admitting the truth? That his hopes for revenging all this someday would be meaningless – that this was really going to end like this, he was really going to die here, die as a toyboy that ment nothing.

He felt a slap on his right cheek. It broke the frozen tear, and it almost broke his bone as well. But it made him feel alive again. He straightened and lifted his chin, using strength he didn't know he had, and forced his gaze off from the distant horizon he had been looking for a while without noticing it. He still didn't feel his bare feet, but he felt the burning in his back and the hand on his shoulder, and it was enough. He took a quick step forward, shooking the and off his shoulder and followed the commander while all the other boys were still standing on straight lines both side of him. He knew that they were saluting the commander, but something made him feel that they were doing it for him.

…………………….

He hadn't ever visited the capitain's office before, and was amazed how warm it was compared to those cold rooms where he had lived last eight years. His back was hurting even more now, but he didn't let it to be seen from his face, like he never did. Those three strangers where there too, still having their coats on. They were arguing, the men against the woman. He tried to concentrate to their words, but couldn't understand what they were talking about. Then the other man turned to him and asked him, with the most perfect Russian accent:

-How old are you, boy?

-13 and half years, sir, he answered.

-And how long have you been there?

-Eight years, sir.

Again, they were arguing. He began to feel himself very sleepy when he was standing there in front of the fireplace – maybe it was the natural thing to do for his beaten body. Because he didn't understand Italian, and most likely didn't even know that there was a country where it was spoken, he couldn't know that they were talking about his future.

……………………….

Years after, when his nightmares were almost gone, he was told about that conversation. Even then it almost scared him to hear how close to death he had been on that day. It had been the men against the woman: men had said that he was too old – the 13-year-old was too old to start training, and 8 years in military school had caused too much mental damage to be healed – and he was clearly aggressive and too disobeying, not even mentioning the fact that he was underfed and since that a way too slight to start a new kind of training immediately. The woman had answered that he was gifted – he had a strong and sharp mind, it could be seen from the way he had stood still for the whole punishment. He was outstanding – all rescuited boys like him had become SCORPIA's finest assassins, and from all boys she had seen he was the most talented one. And… at this part the woman had hesitated. She even hesitated when she was telling about it to him. It was because she was a woman – she couldn't let the men think she was weaker than them. But it had truly been a one reason, the one that had finally convinced the men and saved him: the fact that he was dying there. Being beaten to death, committing a suicide or being used and then killed to cover it. They had seen many boys who had ended like that. And for some reason, maybe because of that quick, cold look he had given to them before punishment, this time they wanted to save him from that destiny.

She kept telling the story, but he wasn't listening anymore. He remembered very well how it had ended. The woman had woken him up with soft, pleasant question. He had answered wrong. He had given his cadet-number instead of his name that he had almost forgotten. No one had called him with that name for years. But the woman wasn't angry, only amused – then she asked again.

-Yassen, he had whispered, trying to find out what was happening. He had known that the woman was being to nice for him, that she couldn't be serious – but maybe he had been to tired and beaten to think it further. He had looked the woman in the eyes and said with louder, stronger voice that had sealed his destiny:

-Yassen Gregorovich.


	2. Into the world

**AN:**_ At the cold winter morning_ was meant to be an "oneshot"-story, but because of my reader's constant requests (just joking D) – and my fantastic idea for the part three and laziness to come up with a new title – I had to make a sequel. It takes place immediately after part one's end.

So now you know why it might be horrible. But please, read and review, make your own estimations about it and tell them to me, I need to know if this is worth for part three

--

-Is there yet something you would like to ask?

Woman's voice was gentle and understanding, so practiced that it was almost like a warning sign. Yassen tried to focus on the situation and push all the memories back to the bottom of his mind with an uncomfortable feeling that three people were observing him closely. Even though he was nothing more than just a young assassin-to-be, he had that important sense in nature that was now yelling him to get out of this white-painted room with only three chairs and big mirrored wall in it, hide and keep low profile somewhere in shadows as he had tried to do for all his life.

The woman was sitting in front of him: she was his finder and trusted, if that was the right word to describe the relationship they had – he was one of about fifty assassins-to-be whose training arrangements and mental consultation were her responsibilities. She wasn't the problem. They had talked couple of times before, and from the sound of her voice when she had just told him about that day he had been rescuited Yassen knew, that she would do everything to let him pass. After all, he was the very first of the boys she personally had found and wanted to be chosen for the training, and by far he was also the most talented one.

Then there was a man sitting little apart from them. He wasn't the problem either. Yassen knew him well, or as well as it was ever possible for an assassin to know another. He was one of the trainers of Malagosto Island's academy, the most demanding and the best; the one Yassen respected the most. He had nothing to say if he passed this test or not – he was there just to learn something about him as a person, to get to know him for the year they would be spending together if all went as it should.

The real problem was the psychiatrist, who Yassen knew was beyond the mirrored wall. He could almost picture him, that disguisting man who was acting cleverer than it was healthy for him, sitting there and making notes with that little, neat handwriting Yassen had seen in so many papers about him. He was there watching his every movement, every glance and every word, maybe even telling the woman what she had to ask by that little headphone Yassen knew she had under her long, brown hair – normally the woman never wore her hair open. He hated him, and he knew that the psychiatrist didn't like him too much either.

He hadn't been an easy patient for him, and he was kind a proud of it. Yassen had his own way to look the world and judge everything that happened to him, and he really didn't need anyone to tell him how he should feel about things, how he should have some special kind of nightmares and how he should have been so torn apart and abused when he had arrived to the island six years ago. Yassen hadn't wanted to understand or handle his memories, but he hadn't been trying to forget everything that had happened to him as a child either. He hadn't been exactly thinking about it, no, but he just had somehow known, that he mustn't ever forget. Never forget a single hit or kick, shout or punishment. Never…

Suddenly Yassen realized he was shivering. And for the first time he didn't understand his body's reaction. He tried to open his fists but didn't succeed. He saw the woman looking at him almost concerned, – or was it just his mind playing tricks with him? – and felt sick. Was it happening now? Was he going to lose it all, break down there in front of by far the most important persons in his life? No. He was almost sure, that in his outlook there was almost no signs of the struggle that was going on inside his head, nothing but the silence that had fallen to the room.

-Yes, Yassen answered. His strong but completely emotionless voice was result of the great inner struggle not to spit the words out of his mouth. The woman hadn't noticed anything strange in the gap between her question and his answer - during the training his naturally sharp mind had reached the highest possible level, and all his thoughts had actually taken only two or three seconds, which could have been only a normal time to think for proper answer.

-I… I have never heard where I was found.

The woman looked him with a little, soft smile. Yassen himself tried not to smile – he knew that his smile would have told her too much about what was going on in his mind. Let her believe he was only curious about his cruel past, anxious to find answers to the vital questions about his family and why he had been abandoned to that horrible orphanace. When she had found the name from her papers, Yassen listened it and nodded to thank her as he was writing in his memory that little word that ment him more than no one could ever understand.

The woman seemed to listen something from her hidden headphone, and then she turned to the man's side saying something to him. The man nodded, and they both looked to Yassen who pretended not to notice it. After all, he was supposed to be a cold-nerved, stonefaced assassin.

-I think that was all, the woman finally said.

-We meet again after your first mission, Cossack. Try not to get killed before that.

The man rose, and Yassen followed. He didn't thank the woman – he was still too young to understand, that it wasn't the pretended coldness that made an assassin, but the coldness deep inside one's heart and soul – and left the room after the man, looking as calm and passive as during the whole interview.

In ten minutes he was on his way to the coast. Malagosto Island was soon only a spot on the horizon. The older assassin sat in the boat, relaxed and prepared. Only now, with a wind in his blonde hair and turqoise water all around him, a knife in his boot and a little handgun on the right side of his waist, Yassen dared to laugh. With that maniac laugh that wind stealed before it reached anybody's ears, he challenged the whole world to try what so many had already failed to do – and to be killed while trying.

………………………………..

-You believe you did the right think, don't you?

It was the psychiatrist in woman's headphone. She laid the papers from her hands on the seat, which was still warm after Yassen, and turned his gaze to the mirror behind which she knew the man was sitting with his notes. As so many others, she disliked him too.

-I think he seemed like completely normal boy in his position, she said calmly, smiling to him in an irritating way.

-He handled himself well. Didn't cry, allthough you said he would. In fact, didn't express any kind of signs of his "mental unstableness", what you were looking for.

-His charm does it, was the answer the woman heard.

-He can be so charismatic, so quiet and sweet, even _lovely _when needed. He –

-He's the absolute elite of our young trainees_, _the woman interrupted with an icy voice.

-He is everything we are looking for. He has the gift, the sense of a natural-born killer.

The psychiatrist was silent. Then he said, with a tip of pity in his quiet voice, though it was impossible to know was it for Yassen or for the whole world that would suffer because of him:

-I didn't say he isn't talented, or that he isn't just what SCORPIA wants. But believe me, he isn't a natural-born anything. He could almost be just a human-shaped, _Terminator_-like killing machine, that's how much emotion I have succeeded to find in him. I mean, he wasn't born like that – there wasn't a drop of murderer in the boy I believe was raped and slowly tortured to death somewhere in his childhood's gloomy playgrounds painted with desperation and the darkest shades of grey and black.

The psychiatrist sighed, and continued like a man knowing that nothing he said wouldn't matter anything to his listener:

-I know you saw the sparkling in his eyes, too, when you gave him the only thing he needed to know. The walking corpse you thought you saved is now roaming free, murdering people with your permission. You can't do anything if he decides not to obey your commandments, because as you said, he is becoming – if he already isn't – superior to all the other assassins you could ever assign after him. God I wish you are happy now. You didn't leave him, the boy who was already dead, to die, but brought him here and killed all what was still left of him. And if –

-What? Woman said annoyed, when the silence in the headphone continued. The psychiatrist took a deep breath, and said with a pretended calmness in his quiet voice:

-Nothing. I have absolutely nothing left to say about Yassen Gregorovich – or _Cossack_, as you like to call him nowadays. Now I shall only sit and wait the day, if that day is never to come, when you are able to bring me his dead body so I can see what really was so wrong in his head.

The woman ripped off the headphone and left the room, remembering herself that they must find a new, more suitable psychiatrist – somebody who would understand SCORPIA's needs and purposes, not trying to fight against them. But at the same time she couldn't escape the little feeling of guilty that made her swear that the psychiatrist's assassination will be carried out by no one else but Yassen – for some reason, this didn't ease the guilty. And although the psychiatrist met his death only two weeks after this fatal day of his – though it wasn't Yassen's job because he didn't have enough experience for silent assassinations yet – that feeling stuck in the woman's mind and raised its head every time she heard about Yassen's horrifying success along her years. She probably wouldn't live long enough to admit it to herself, but in her black dreams she kept seeing the face of the young, beaten boy, and every time she woke up to the horrible realization, that there was nothing beneath the boy's icy-blue, tired eyes.


	3. Rebirth

**AN**: Had little problems with Yassen's character now that I read about the new book… He begins to get some features I know the original one hasn't. I've taken him over! D

Really, I'm not so happy with this chapter as I am with the first 2. But I hope the last one will be great

--

It was an early and very cold winter morning in the Arkhangelsk region in northern Russia. About 50 kilometers from nearest town and 200 from nearest city, there was a road across the deep taigan forest that led in front of the massive gate covered with barbed wire. Beyond it the forest turned slowly into an open field where stood six 3-floored concrete-buildings – the main orphanage of the region. There, hidden from the eyes of the world, abandoned and forgotten, the legions of boys were raised to fill their destiny in the service of the Russian military forces and to die, usually very violently.

Today there was also a young man in long, black jacket, bareheaded despite the breezing northern wind, standing alone at the wide square in front of the main building. His ice-blue eyes watched silently the surroundings from the shadow of his blonde, windswept hair as another man was coming towards him from the building. Although his strong figure was a clear proof that he hadn't been raised there, something in him told the exactly opposite. All the boys of the orphanage had that same, somehow confused and lonely look beneath their unbreakable cover.

For Yassen, the moment was both strangely satisfying and extremely frightening. The place hadn't changed a bit since he had left it 7 years ago, and although he had, here it didn't matter. This was the place of his nightmares, the source of his deepest fears. Even the beautiful morning and the soft snow shining blindingly white in the morning sun reminded him of the past. Here, surrounded by snow and all alone, it was hard even for Yassen's thoughts – which usually were sharper than the finest razorblades – to keep his mind focused.

He was the winner here – it was all he needed to know. A slight, yet anything but soft smile spread into Yassen's pale face, making him look even lonelier and bitterer as well as very dangerous to the young man that was there to welcome him – it was the way his skin tightened over his chins as a result of the malnutrition of his childhood that no amounts of food could never completely heal. Yassen shook hands with the man, looking him straight in the eyes to find any signs of recognition. They were about the same age, so they had probably known each other back in childhood and Yassen knew that old friends could be ten times more dangerous than brand-new enemies if they turned out in the wrong time. To secure his cover, Yassen even explained the purpose of his visit adding a little foreign accent to his Russian to sound more like the people he knew SCORPIA usually sent to these places.

When he entered the building behind his guide and saw the old, dirty walls Yassen felt the fear-blended excitement raising its head. This had been his true goal from his early days at Malagosto Island, first in SCORPIA's private hospital and then through the endless hours of training. And look at him now – a fully trained assassin with SCORPIA's papers that always generated the atmosphere of trust and admiration around their owner in every orphanage and correctional institute around the world. With them he felt he was ready to face whatever waited him beyond those thick wooden doors.

Yassen didn't have problem with calling his visit "a mission". Actually he shouldn't be there at all – he had been given a fortnight's holiday he was expected to spend in France – so being there and doing things he knew he would soon do wasn't only against SCORPIA's rules, but also a way more risky than normal assignments. Without SCORPIA's acceptance he would be treated like a normal criminal, so getting caught here was anything but a good idea. KGB already had him connected with at least three assassinations.

Suprisingly, during the long hours of thinking in train on his way to the north Yassen had noticed that the possibility of being arrested and imprisoned didn't matter to him – neither did the possibility that he might need to shoot himself to hide his connections to SCORPIA and avoid becoming hanged as a murderer if everything went completely wrong. This was his mission, and he was ready to take full responsibilty of it in every way. It wouldn't be his loss in any case.

Yassen took a deep breath, filling every part of his body with ice-cold determination when trying to calm all the emotions that could disturb his concentration. The man in front of him stopped and knocked the door. This was the last chance to back up – but if he didn't do this, he would regret it for the rest of his life.

The door opened and a young boy stepped out, taking a short, fearful glance to Yassen. Yassen's face became completely emotionless at once, and his eyes began to gleam with rage. He spitted out a silent "Spasiba" to his guide and closed the door behind him. Five minutes later an entirely other man opened it again.

……………………….

In a way it was Yassen's first kill he committed in that beautiful morning. As he was walking away, leaving the body, the orphanage and – as he believed – his past behind, he tried to understand how he felt now. Was he happy, or sad, or able to feel anything at all? Had he finally passed the line and taken the step beyond humanity? But then the feeling came, suddenly as he was trying to protect his ears from the biting wind and at the same time waved to the man he had hired to drive him to the orphanage and back – it was burning, stomach-turning feeling, so familiar to him from his childhood.

Yassen had learnt that he must never hesitate or play any games with his target – faceless men, faceless bodies, no words because they were never necessary. Today Yassen had failed in that. He had waited too long, because his target had something he desperately wanted – the control over his life. How could he forget or carry on with his life without the knowledge that the man, his torturor, his nightmare had to beg mercy from him, that he had to recognize him, admit that he had become stronger, that he was the winner of this sick game… and because of that, he had lost to that man, and even more bitterly, to himself. Yassen noticed a hot tear in his cheek. It was a tear of pure anger, frustration and disappointment, even somehow a tear of a lonely boy scared by nightmares of the night that would never end, the past that would never fade.

His past might be his weakness, but it was also his strength. It was years ago, when Yassen had understood that because emotions and and perceptions were fragile, the mind could be strong only if it was completely separated – the pain, no matter how unbearable, or the fear of death, no matter how horrifying, could never kill him if he didn't let them to. His wit had always had control over his feelings. And now his wit knew it wouldn't be healthy for him to turn up in front of SCORPIA like this. It was done, he had killed and he had survived. Now he just had to get into the car and leave as quickly as he could, like after every succesful assassination. There was nothing else to do.

Yassen wasn't exceptionally surprised when a KGB agent and six militian officers arrested him at Moscow's aeroport a day after leaving the orphanage – actually he was a little disappointed, because he had believed he was ranked more dangerous than that. After three days SCORPIA came, paid and took him to Venice, still arrested but now guarded by two assassins. Yassen knew that SCORPIA knew everything – and that they could have come much earlier.

Though he hadn't had experience about it, Yassen had never before believed in the legend that man's last words would last forever in his murderer's mind. But during that long week he waited for his trial, locked in a secure room in one of the renaissance palaces SCORPIA owned, he became sure that he could never forget the words that now echoed in his head – "you hear me, you don't dare, you little…"


	4. Finale

**AN:** The last part of my most difficult and time-taking story so far! This was a hard part, but finally I just decided to finish it… Still, I think I managed quite well.

________________________________________________________________________________

The woman entered the room with the others feeling very confused and uncertain. She took her place around the long, polished wooden table and looked through the thick pile of paper in front of her. All the others did the same, though it wasn't necessary for any of them – like the woman, they had all read it through more than once. They all knew everything about the incident that had brought them all there today.

When they had found their seats, there was still one empty chair little apart from the others. It was, like everything in the room, made from polished, dark wood that reflected the light of the beautiful Mediterranean winterday in Venice. The woman shivered when she looked the chair – it was a relatively cold day, and she had always hated that room where air-conditioning worked even too well and tens of eyes of dead people watched her from the portraits hanging on the walls. But mostly it was because the person she knew would soon be seated there.

The soundproof door opened and every face in the room turned to it – the woman was sure that even the paintings were watching. When two guards escorted Yassen in and closed the door after him, she felt that the migraine that had given some signs from the morning had suddenly decided to strike her down at once. By the time she had found her pills from her pocket and swallowed two to be sure they would work, Yassen had already been seated and the guards had taken their places by his chair. The woman – who had made a conscious decision not to visit her "fallen boy" before the trial – took a quick, shocked breath when she saw his face. The week hadn't been long enough to cover the black eye and other bruises on Yassen's narrow, pale face, not to speak about his rope-burned wrists and four broken, splinted fingers he had laid on the table. KGB had their own way to treat SCORPIA's men carrying out CIA-paid assassinations of their undercover agents in South-America. Yassen had killed three of them.

Actually this was the first time since last year the woman got to see Yassen this close, and as she was so concentrated to him, she missed almost the whole opening speech. Yassen hadn't changed much – only the hair was a little longer and he seemed little more serious and withdrawn than before. He didn't seem to listen the speaker either, judging by his emotionless face and empty gaze of his beautiful eyes. Was he scared or just indifferent, it was impossible for even the woman to tell. Though this was her little, now grown-up boy, the only thing that she knew for sure was that there was something new in him, in the way he looked his hands stony-faced even when the speaker begin to talk about his punishment. For some reason it was breaking woman's heart.

Suddenly the woman noticed it was her turn. It took a few second for her to collect her thoughts, but her well-prepared defence-speech sounded still better than ever. It was fully based on the fact she knew was the most difficult in Yassen's case – that they had only two possible ways to handle it, either forget it or give him a death-penalty. She read some carefully-chosen parts from Yassen's psychological profile, those where he was said to be extremely careful and considerate in missions without any threatening or aggressive behaviour, ignoring the ones with not so flattering words. She pointed out that though having been working only a year, Yassen was already better than many others – not only hadn't he ever missed any of his targets, but he was also very careful with them and resorted never to more violence than was necessary or asked. This was all due to his past, or, as the woman expressed it, the part of his past he had never had – the part SCORPIA had taken over. So why would they want to let a man like Yassen be wasted? But, if SCORPIA wanted to get rid of Yassen… Basically, the only way was to kill him. A desperate man with no bonds, no past or no future, armed with his lethal skills would always find a way to cause troubles to them.

The woman had finished her statement and sat down. As the conversation continued, she noticed there was a little grin on Yassen's face, almost as a sign of agreement with her words.

-"But we can let him just get away with this!" shouted a man suddenly, ceasing the conversation and waved his hand to Yassen who now raised his head.

-"Considerate… careful… doesn't ever resort to unecessary violence… Tell it to that man! You all knew what happened – he practically castrated him and blowed up his chin before giving a bullet to his head! He has admitted it both to us and to KGB when questioned. He hasn't shown any signs of regretting it, as you can very well see.

They all turned to Yassen, who, as an answer, gave them almost arrogant smile. Suddenly everybody began to talk at the same time. They all knew this was the heart of the problem. Though they could only imagine what that man had done to Yassen and to so many others, how could they really trust Yassen ever again, especially when they all had witnessed how he could not only be completely emotionless and cold, but also lack all the respect and obedience towards them. Almost like there had been two sides in Yassen's personality.

Suddenly the woman heard a silent, tapping sound. It was Yassen, tapping his broken fingers of his right hand agains the table, following the movement with his eyes. Why was he doing it? If she hadn't known better, she would have said Yassen seemed almost… nervous. He tapped his fingers like a child craving for at least some kind of control over his life, believing all the bad things would go away if he just concentrated hard enough. It had to be painful. But of course, as trained by SCORPIA, Yassen had learned to control the pain years ago – maybe even before, as the woman added in her mind when she remembered the morning she first saw him. Yassen had never had any use to tears - it was impossible to try to picture him having cried or shouted when interrogators had broked the ring and little finger from both hands "by accident", or even if they had cut them of.

But it didn't mean that Yassen didn't feel the pain at all. The woman could almost feel how it pierced the mind behind Yassen's unbreakable mask every time his fingers hit the table, and how the pain after a moment began to cease, tap after tap…

As if he would have been able to read her thoughts, Yassen raised his eyes to meet her gaze. The tapping had ended, and so had the conversation around them. Afterwards it was impossible for the woman recall how the meeting had ended – the only thing she was sure of was the cold smile on Yassen's face when he had been released, and how he had bowed to them all waiting for somebody to open the door for him.

-------------------------------------------

The last time the woman ever saw Yassen was a day after that. Yassen was in his room, packing his belongings for the next mission – because of his fingers he had been assigned to assist two SCORPIA's employees to set a bomb to USA's embassy at the capital of one South-American country during some local event and make it look like rebellions' work. It would take almost a month, and after that Yassen would surely be able to handle guns as well as he was before "the accident with KGB", as it was now called.

-"Trying again to understand?" Yassen asked without raising his head from his baggage.

The woman didn't answer, but walked to the nearest chair and sat down.

-"You are so sure about yourself", the woman said bitterly after a moment of silence.

-"Believing nobody can get you, nothing hurt you… We have truly trained you well."

Yassen turned to her and smiled. The woman was almost scared of the quickness and easiness of his movements, as he suddenly was standing straight in front of her.

-"Why do you do this?" he asked silently, leaning toward her.

-"What do you see in me worth caring for? I have nothing to give you."

It was impossible to know what was going on behind Yassen's steely gaze. It was almost like one of her nightmares materialized – the badly treated, little blue-eyed boy trapped in the body of a soulless monster, the boy that should have died a long time ago…

All of a sudden Yassen backed, turning his head away. He doesn't know what to do, something in the women's mind shouted, as she was trying to understand what had happened.

-"I don't know what has happened to you", she said, her voice trembling.

-"You aren't insane, you can't be. I have seen many assassins, and you know yourself how good you are. You couldn't be that good if you enjoyed killing people. I think you simply don't care about anything anymore, not even about your own life."

-"I'm actually quite fond of living", Yassen interrupted her with forced smile. The moment was over, the women could see it from his face.

-"Think what you want", the woman answered little more confident, rose up and took a step towards the door.

-"As long as you don't do anything like that murder again. If I'm correct, you shouldn't have any reason for it."

After this final statement, woman walked away. Somehow, she felt great – though she hadn't told it to Yassen, and why would she had, she had already resigned herself from SCORPIA's actions. The talk with Yassen had proved her decision right. It was finally time to let Yassen go, try to forget him and the crimes they all had committed against him.

Maybe, if she had had a chance to find out who was the assassin SCORPIA had assigned to kill her, she would have found it only justifyed. She might even have thanked Yassen.


End file.
